


Grip My Hips so Mean

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, bossy bottom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 14:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16620566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: He smacks you, once, a firm brush of leather against heated skin and you keen. Though you’ll never admit to making that noise. He prods at your hole then, a single finger. Insistent, firm, but gentle the way he has always been. It slips into your well moistened hole with little resistance. “More.”





	Grip My Hips so Mean

 

You’re a warrior. Fierce and mighty and unbreakable. You know, deep inside what kind of man you are, and where you’ll find your end. It makes you a little reckless, a little carefree. You know what kind of reputation that affords you, both on the battlefield and under cover of night.

You know it’s at least partially earned.  _ You like  _ the sweat and adrenaline. Like the song of metal and armor, the smoothness of silk and skin. You have no care for decorum or procedure. You want the rush, the heat of the moment.

You are a god, swinging your sword.

Here though, you learn that gods kneel, when it suits them. Here, on the king’s own throne, with your hands bound around the back. Here, you learn, King’s too, have been known to kneel.

His tongue is wet, is warm. Is rough in an unexpected way. The king licks at your taint, long burst of motion that have your chest heaving. He can go for  _ hours  _ like this. Has done so, when he’s feeling particularly ruthless.

Now though, his strokes are short, are teasing. He pauses, breath hot against your spread cheeks and he laughs. “So filthy. A man of your standing bent before me this way.”

You snarl, your belly pools with heat. “So humble, a king willing to service his knight.”

He smacks you, once, a firm brush of leather against heated skin and you keen. Though you’ll never admit to making that noise. He prods at your hole then, a single finger. Insistent, firm, but gentle the way he has always been. It slips into your well moistened hole with little resistance. “More.”

He pauses. “You aren’t ready.” 

You have this discussion every time and you turn your head to stare into wide blue eyes. “  _ More.” _

You’ve never known anyone else to survive demanding something from the king, but he complies. It burns, hurts, is too much too fast and you  _ love  _ it. He slips the third finger in unprompted and your whole body tenses. He waits, lets you clench and unclench your muscles, lets you shove against his hand when you are ready.

He puts his other hand to your waist and holds you still. “You’re beautiful, Gwaine, splayed for me like this. Do the other knights know? Do they know how you spread yourself for your king? How you mewl against his hand?  Or do they believe you’re bedding a well paid whore?”

You sigh. He curls his fingers, watches the way it makes the muscles in your thighs quiver. “Do you dream of this, during campaigns? Fist yourself to the thought of me pumping in and out of you?”

You bite your teeth, so hard they might crack, to keep from crying “Yes!” Instead you try to buck your hips, try to get some relief for your aching member, swollen and leaking against your belly.

The king reaches around you to squeeze your glans, finger the thread that keeps you from release.

“Not yet,” he says, and then he’s twisting a fourth finger into you and he brushes that place and you can’t help the way you gasp, the way your whole body tenses and then convulses.

“Now,” you growl.  

He doesn’t argue, just kisses the base of your spine and withdraws his fingers. It’s unpleasant, the sudden emptiness, the coolness of air rushing about down there. “Hurry.”

He does, and you feel the thick head of him prodding. He’s always been well endowed. Long and thick, always been too much at first. He tries to go slow, to let you adjust, but you shove back. You  _ ache  _ for the dry burn and the too-much stretch.

The way he sucks in a sharp breath as your body takes him to the hilt, the way his hands grip your hips so mean, and his chest heaves against your back. There’s a moment then, a stillness, where it’s just the combinations of your breaths, and your heartbeats, and the sweat.

It’s a moment just before a sword falls, before the first thrust, completely peaceful and extremely heedy. The moment you’ve been chasing you’re whole life

“Better than a woman, so tight and hot.” He fucks into you then, first with slow, shallow thrust. Then deeper and harder, until you’re being slammed, somewhat uncomfortably, against the throne he sits in. “More, dammit. Faster.”

He complies and the slaps of his balls against you echo throughout the room too loud and not loud enough. There are no words left, just harsh pants and gasp, your keening and his groaning. You feel when he’s close, when he loses all control, the way his thrust lose any sense of rhythm and his mouth finds that knob at the top of your spine and he bites.

He stills, and then you feel the rush of his hot, sticky seed inside of you. He lingers, for a long moment, after he spends, and then he is carefully pulling out. His fingers explore, pushing the seed back into your swollen hole, chasing it down the inside of your thighs.

He undoes the string around you then, cups you in his broad, calloused hand. He uses his own spend to slick you up, and it never takes more than a few strokes, a couple of twist for you to cry your release into his hand.

He holds you then, curled in his lap and strokes your back, whispering sweet nonsense into your ear.

The moment never last long enough before he’s guiding you on wobbly legs to a basin he’s had set up. You clean yourselves in silence, he kisses you once, hard and fast and claiming, and then you dress and depart ways.

You like the thrill of battle, you love these moments. Rare as they are.

  
  



End file.
